


The Russian Bleeding Hearts Club

by Sedaris



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), captain america: the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sedaris/pseuds/Sedaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was totally, totally weird, but it made each of them feel a little healthier, knowing that the mixed-up feelings and memories that haunted them at least confused somebody else, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Russian Bleeding Hearts Club

It was weird, the friendship between Bucky and Natasha. Not just because they'd had retro sex that neither of them could really remember and were only vaguely sure even actually happened (though Natasha's old spy files indicated that several pregnancy tests were performed, all with negative results), but because they were always eerily in sync. They understood one another on a visceral, soul-deep level, the kind of way that siblings abused in the same home might. They'd never known anyone but each other who had such similar experiences with the kind of creative torture and paranoid espionage that only the good ol' Russians could come up with, and that knowledge forged a kind of palpable solidarity between them. It was never verbally acknowledged, but was continuously expressed, through knowing glances and feather-light touches and sustained silences.

 

It was totally, totally weird, but it made each of them feel a little healthier, knowing that the mixed-up feelings and memories that haunted them at least confused somebody else, too.

 

Like, for instance, when Natasha would stare at Bruce as he fed one of his lab mice, all gentle strokes of his finger along her white-haired spine and murmurs of encouragement and _there you go, I knew you could do it, I'm so proud of you_. She hadn't even known that her whole body felt close to splintering apart until Bucky's warm palm pressed delicately against her elbow, slamming her back into herself. Her eyes trailed up to meet his, and there it was — not pity, or judgement, or mocking. His eyes said to her, _Yes. I know. I get it._

 

"Let's go to the shooting range." Her voice had sounded like gravel in a blender.

 

\--------------------------------

 

When Bucky and Steve first started dating in earnest, Bucky would always insist on a sparring match after every time that they had sex.

 

"Please," he'd beg, staring at the hands that had just held him so gently, feeling like he may as well have broken all of his ribs. "Please. Can we?" He'd avoid Steve's eyes, the eyes that had held his gaze throughout the entire duration of the lovemaking, always so grateful and full of hope and piercing in their softness.

 

Steve would just sigh sadly and lay a hand on his arm, saying sure, Buck, let's go down to the gym.

 

Bucky always lost these matches. He'd barely try to attack Steve, and, more often then not, he'd throw his weight to make sure that Steve's blows really landed. The spars would end with Bucky wiping blood from his nose and spitting out a sliver of tooth, grinning widely like he wouldn't when they had sex, chest heaving in relief.

 

The other Avengers would notice the damage and wonder why Bucky was always doing this — everybody except Natasha, who would give him a hard look and brief, knowing nod.

 

\--------------------------------

 

There was the time that Bruce showed up in her space, for once, quietly walking into the armory with the most expensive bottle of vodka that Natasha had ever laid eyes on. He set it down in front of where she was cleaning her favorite gun, a personalized little glock that she had affectionately christened "Heartstopper". She looked up at him and he shrugged, hand absently reaching up to the back of his neck.

 

"Present from the University of Moscow. Not that I recommend drinking when handling — which one is that, Heartstopper? But I probably shouldn't touch the stuff, not when it might, ah, lessen my control."

 

She was quiet for a moment, considering. Then she snapped the gun back in its holster and kicked out the chair across from her. Bruce took a seat, and she narrowed her eyes slightly in teasing suspicion, lips quirked in a smirk. "You're always looking for things that take some edge off. And I know that you're a mellow drunk. If anything, this stuff would probably help you. And it's good vodka, too, Bruce. I'd say it's the best."

 

He flushed almost imperceptibly — "almost" being the key word, as there were few human physical tells that Natasha ever failed to note, and this one made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Then he simply shrugged again and smiled, caught.

 

"Maybe. But I'd rather you have it."

 

If her stomach was twisting before, now it was in a sailor's knot.

 

"Why?"

 

He looked out the window, a perfect view of New York spread out before him. His sights were on the horizon. "Thought you might like it. And it's hard to come by gifts that I think you'd actually be interested in, so I have to jump when the opportunity presents itself. And...like you said, it's the best. There aren't a whole lot of "best" things that I can give you."

 

Natasha's guts were currently performing a scene from Cirque du Soleil, complete with acrobats and jugglers.

 

"...And that's...." She cleared her throat. She let her eyes close for a fraction of a second, composing herself, the way she'd been forced to master years ago. "That's something you want? To give me...'the best'?"

 

He turned his head back to face her, his expression suddenly very, very serious. "Do you really want me to be honest with you about this? This subject, Nat. Can you handle me being honest with you?"

 

She steeled her expression. She could be serious too.

 

"Yes."

 

He folded his hands on the table, breaking eye contact. He'd called her bluff.

 

He was honest anyway.

 

"I want to give you everything."

He risked a glance back up at her. Her lips were in a thin line, her wide eyes so full and conflicted as to be totally unreadable. The honesty kept on.

 

"I love you, Natasha."

 

Her stomach was not even part of her anatomy anymore, it couldn't handle this, it had escaped out the door about ten minutes ago and was currently doing push-ups in the gym.

 

She said nothing.

 

And nothing.

 

And nothing.

 

Bruce didn't get up from the table. He held her gaze this time, because she wasn't breaking it.

 

She still said nothing.

 

Until she did.

 

"I love you so much that I think I'll shatter some day."

 

His eyes widened and his jaw slacked, and for a split second Natasha thought that her development past her emotional restrictions had actually summoned the Hulk, and she began to reach back for her weapons case with her left hand at the same time that Bruce reached for her right. He held her hand so gingerly, as though it were a precious thing, before carefully pulling it up to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss to her knuckles.

 

Natasha felt like a mirror that someone had just rammed with a sledgehammer.

 

She rose suddenly, pulling her hand back. "I have to go," she said, running out of the room as Bruce slowly lowered his face into his hands.

 

Her feet carried her, seemingly of their own volition, towards Bucky's room, and her fist pounded urgently against his door. It swung open to reveal an alert super-assassin in a ratty old t-shirt and exercise shorts, freshly-cut hair mussed from sleep and a knife gripped tightly in his poised hand. He took one look at her, eyes scanning all over her prickling body, before visibly relaxing and stepping aside.

 

"You want to come inside and hear about the first time that Steve told me that I was, and I quote, ' _the one great love of his life_ '? Because that's a fun story — it ends with two threats of international warfare, a Mexican standoff, and a negotiation of the ownership of a collection of Nazi treasure."

 

She made her way through his threshold, walking only so far that Bucky could close the door behind her before halting on the carpet, turning on her heel and meeting his eyes. Then, for the first time since she was four years old, Natasha started to cry.

\--------------------------------

 

There was the time that, while on a mission with the Avengers, Bucky received a five-inch-deep gash in his thigh without even realizing it. His body was so used to automatically snapping into shock, to blocking out and tolerating pain, that he had just kept on punching aliens, completely unaware that he was rapidly losing pint after pint of blood.

 

Or, he _was_ unaware, until Steve bludgeoned the alien in front of Bucky with his shield and collapsed at his feet, wrapping cloth from the alien's cloak around his thigh and screaming. Bucky couldn't hear him. He kept firing at aliens, even though they were retreating back into their ship.

 

A familiar cold hand pressed against his shoulder. "Soldier," the owner of the hand spoke, commanding. "On the ground, now."

 

Bucky lowered himself onto the concrete, swaying a little as he went.

 

"Look me in the eyes, Soldier."

 

He did. It was The Black Widow, a little older, a little softer than when he had seen her last. "Black Widow," he addressed her, eyes dark and clouded. "Did we get the mark?"

 

"Yes, Soldier." Natasha put her hand out to hold back a panicking Steve, who was yelling frantically. "What is wrong with you?!? Don't feed into his flashback, Natasha! You're making it worse! Please, stop! You're going to make it all worse!"

 

She ignored him, looking at the paramedics that were running towards them. "Rest now, Soldier."

 

Bucky closed his eyes sleepily, obediently. "Yes, Black Widow."

 

\------------------------------

Bucky always considered the possibility that maybe, someday, he was going to have to kill the Hulk. How exactly he'd do it, we was not yet sure — though not for lack of trying, as he had done extensive research on everything from Norse legends to modern lethal injections. To his great frustration and anxiety, he had yet to find anything that he thought would ensure victory.

 

It wasn't that he actually wanted to kill the Hulk. Far from it — Bruce was a great friend to him, someone with whom he genuinely connected, and his death would do no less than break Bucky's heart. But it was five months into Bruce's relationship with Natasha, and Bucky knew, from the depths of his blackened and corrupted (but healing) soul, that while Bruce would never, ever lay a finger on her, the Hulk might.

 

And Bucky wouldn't hesitate to stop him.

 

It was awful, and it made him _feel_ awful, this sense that it would somehow be his responsibility to stop the Hulk if it came down to it, if somebody had to.

 

He found himself watching Bruce out of the corner of his eye while they were all crowded in the family room for movie night, Natasha finding it within herself to curl against his side. Bucky watched Bruce's hand as he toyed with a lock of her hair, and he tracked every minute sign of a possibly exploitable weakness.

 

On another occasion, he'd laughed hysterically at a joke Bruce had made (at Tony's expense, which was his favorite kind). He looked up from where he was doubled over, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, when he caught Bruce's hand absently going to his stomach, as if the laughter had strained the muscles there.

 

_Interesting_ , he caught himself thinking, storing the information away in the mental file he kept on the subject.

 

He did this kind of thing all the damn time, and it made him feel so, so shitty, because he was supposed to be becoming more trusting, less suspicious, less...assassin-like. But even if this wasn't the healthiest thing for his "mental journey" (as Sam called it), he had no idea what he'd do if Natasha died, so he allowed it.

 

One day, Bruce marched up to him, looking stressed.

 

A stressed Bruce was never a good sign. "Here," he said quietly, his fist closed around something. He glanced around the tower for stray Avengers; no Clint hanging from the ceiling, no Thor marveling at the Keurig.

 

Bucky reached his hand out and accepted the object, studying it discreetly. It was a small glass vial, filled with a milky sort of liquid. "What is it?"

 

Bruce fiddled with his hands nervously. "It's what I think would kill the Hulk. And me."

 

Bucky's eyes widened. "Bruce — "

 

"Just," Bruce cut him off. "I know you've been...you've been thinking about it, too. If anything were to happen. It's...it's important that we have the possibility, at least, on the table. Just in case."

 

Bucky nodded, wrapping his hand around the vial and pulling it to his chest. "I respect the hell out of you, Bruce."

 

Bruce laughed uneasily, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Well."

 

Bucky looked down, an uncomfortable question bubbling up within him. "Bruce?"

 

He looked up. "Yeah?"

 

"Look, it's not my business, but...Steve told me. About how you, ah..."

 

Bruce's eyes were shining. "About how I tried to kill myself?"

 

Bucky regretted everything. "...Yes. I guess, ah. Okay, you deal with Natasha, so you know you just gotta bear with me for a sec. Um. I just want to say...I'm really, really glad that even though you figured out how to make this, you didn't use it on yourself. I'm...I'm real glad."

 

Bruce gave him a melancholy little smile. "I guess I just...don't want that anymore."

 

At that moment, the elevator pinged, and Steve stepped out, carrying a carton of Marlboros. "You are seriously lucky that we've got money this time around, Buck. Have you seen cigarette prices nowadays? You woulda never been able to afford the habit if we had things the way we did in '42."

 

Bucky turned back to Bruce, his face lighting up with understanding the way that it usually only did for Natasha.

 

Yeah.

 

He got what he meant.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I love you!
> 
> :)


End file.
